


those hands that pulled me from the earth

by epeolotry



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:14:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolotry/pseuds/epeolotry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire, she says. </p><p>The name echoes in his skull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	those hands that pulled me from the earth

**Author's Note:**

> I will not ask you where you came from / I will not ask, neither would you

 

All is dark, all is violent.

 

And then, there is nothing.

 

He lays supine, vulnerable, in what may as well be his final resting place. Once the overwhelming scent of rotten eggs and fish fills his nostrils, he’s vaguely aware of where he’s finally settled. The irony of the situation certainly isn’t lost on him.

Dying in a heap of trash wasn’t exactly how he planned on going out. A gurgling laugh rises in his throat and he chokes on his own blood. Moisture wells up in his eyes and the last lingering emotion he’s left with before he loses himself is simple, pathetic _guilt_. Bitter, familiar _guilt_.

 

His body twitches convulsively.

 

And then, he is still.

 

  

\- - - 

 

He is not awake to hear murmured strains of Spanish or feel a pair of steady hands lift him from his makeshift grave.

 

He _is_ awake to hear the dialing of a phone and reflexively, shoots up an arm, halting whoever is calling. He doesn’t remember much of the rest, only the presence of warm, familiar hands at his arms, at the small of his back, steadying him. As soon as he is out of their reach, he loses his balance and the sound of flesh, _his flesh_ , hitting the ground rings in his ears.

 

Everything goes dark.

 

 

\- - -

 

He is awake. He is awake and there is a woman beside him. He can smell the perfume dabbed across her neckline (freesia), the latex of her gloves (cheap drugstore brand), the scent of her hair (jasmine and musk).

Already, she knows too much. Letting him into what seems to be her apartment, seeing his face, it’s all equivalent to a death sentence. The stinging guilt pierces him again (that, or it’s the six inch long slice down his side), and he knows he’s involved someone else, put someone else in danger. She brushes the hair away from his face and wipes a cotton swab against his forehead, and instinctively, he stiffens, fearful, as if the closer her touch, the further she falls into jeopardy.

 

But he is weak, barely able to breathe or move without stabbing pains erupting in his chest. So he resigns himself to the care of his protector, his bedside nurse.

 

 _Claire_ , she says.

 

The name echoes in his skull.

 

She is Claire, and he is _Mike_. A moniker taken from an old ex.

 

( _Matthew,_ a small voice says in the back of his mind.

 _Claire and Matthew: Matthew and Claire, Claire, Matthew_.

They reverberate and fill his head.)

 

He can barely keep his eyes open, but half-consciously, he hears her wry cadences, her sharp wit in response to his no doubt aggravating secrecy, and a small, incongruous smile plays on his lips. One, that, unbeknownst to him, is mirrored on her face, albeit curiously.

Marshaling his resolve, he reaches out and grasps her long, delicate fingers.

 

“Thank you, Claire.”

 

It is appreciation and apology, for all that she’s done and all that she will have to do, through the inauspicious bond forged between them. His thanks masks a craven confession that he cannot bear to tell her. Not now. _Not yet_.

_I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but thank you._

 

Words are left unsaid, and yet, they rest so _heavily_ on him, an unwelcome burden upon his collapsing chest. She sighs and tells him to rest, turning away. He fears for her life, for the life of the boy he is unable to protect, and his body is wracked by helpless shudders.

As he drifts off uneasily, he absurdly thinks. He thinks of the warmth of her fingertips and the smell of her hair.

 

Thinks that he is grateful and so very sorry.


End file.
